The thing about wanting to die so you can get isekai'd is that nobody takes you seriously.

  Not your parents, who haven't called in eight months. Not your coworkers at the hospital, who think you're "quirky" because you read manhwa on your lunch breaks instead of gossiping about which doctor is dating which nurse. Not even the truck drivers, who swerve out of the way at the last second like you're some kind of inconvenience rather than a woman with a plan.

  She kept a diary since she was seventeen, hidden under her mattress next to a stack of "daddy manhwa" she would take to her grave before admitting she owned. The diary was thick now, pages crinkled from being flipped through too many times, corners dog-eared on the particularly interesting failures.

  The current page read:

  How to Abandon This Mortal Coil and Find a Hot Duke in Another World: A Comprehensive Study

  Entry #47: The Rooftop Incident (Failed)

  Attempt Date: April 3rd

  Location: Hospital rooftop, 11 PM (Timing, check)

  Method: Leap of faith while clutching Volume 15 of I Became the Tyrant's Secretary

  Weather: Windy (good for billowing clothes effect)

  Execution: Climbed to roof. Security cameras probably caught this but whatever. Stood at edge. Hair whipped around face in aesthetically pleasing manner. I closed my eyes and spread arms like that scene in Titanic. Leaned forward—

  Result: Security guard grabbed my coat. Yanked me back so hard I fell on my ass. He was crying and kept saying "You have so much to live for." I tried to explain I was attempting interdimensional travel, not actual suicide, but he wouldn't listen. Called hospital counselor. Had to attend three mandatory therapy sessions where Dr. Kim diagnosed me with "maladaptive daydreaming" and "possible reality dissociation."

  Dr. Kim doesn't get it. Dr. Kim has never read a single manhwa in his life. Dr. Kim thinks my obsession with fictional fathers is "concerning." Dr. Kim can go to hell.

  Status: FAILED. Also got written up by supervisor for "concerning behavior." May affect my performance review.

  Additional Notes: Guard's name is Mr. Park. He now checks on me every shift. Brings me extra kimbap from the cafeteria. Feel bad about traumatizing him but not bad enough to stop trying.

  She flipped back through earlier entries while waiting for her instant ramen to cook. The microwave hummed. The walls of her studio apartment were thin enough that she could hear her neighbor watching a drama, something about a cold CEO and a plucky intern. The female lead was probably crying. They were always crying.

  Entry #23: The Summoning Circle Disaster (Failed)

  Drew magic circle on apartment floor using salt, candles, and diagram printed from sketchy website. Chanted for thirty minutes straight. My throat hurt. Neighbor banged on wall and screamed "It's 2 AM, shut the hell up!" I ignored him and continued chanting. Candle tipped over. Rug caught fire. Had to use expensive face mist spray to put it out because I don't own a fire extinguisher like a normal person.

  Entry #9: First Truck-kun Attempt (Failed)

  Saw delivery truck approaching intersection, looked like it was going pretty fast based on how quickly it covered the distance between the traffic light and the crosswalk. Stepped into crosswalk at what I thought was the perfect moment.

  Pigeon flew into windshield. Driver swerved. I stood in middle of road like an idiot while he rolled down window and yelled at me for jaywalking. I told him he missed his calling. He looked confused. I left.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Status: Truck-kun has terrible aim. Will try again next year.

  The microwave beeped. She pulled out her ramen, peeled back the lid, and scrolled through her phone while the noodles cooled. New chapter update for Father, I Don't Want This Marriage. She clicked it immediately.

  The Duke was carrying his daughter. The art was gorgeous, his silver hair falling across his forehead, his expression stern but protective, the daughter's face buried against his chest as he shielded her from the world.

  She felt something in her chest. This was what she wanted. Not romance or adventure, not even the magic or the powers or the fantasy world itself. Just... this. Someone who would shield you, or at least someone who would show up. Her phone buzzed.

  Mom: Transferred money for next semester. Eat properly.

  Three sentences. No "how are you." No "we miss you." No "happy birthday," even though her birthday was two days ago.

  She stared at the message for a long moment, then set her phone face-down on the table and ate her ramen in silence. The noodles were too hot but she didn't care.

  By twenty-four, she had refined her methodology.

  The problem with most isekai deaths, she'd determined, was lack of commitment. People half-assed it. Jumped off buildings but aimed for bushes. Walked into traffic but closed their eyes and hoped. No. If you wanted results, you needed to be strategic.

  She'd created a document on her phone—password protected, titled "Research Notes" in case anyone ever found it, where she cataloged every isekai transportation method she'd encountered across two hundred and thirty-seven different manga, manhwa, and web novels.

  Truck-kun was the clear winner. Approximately ninety-four percent success rate in Japanese media, though Korean stories seemed to favor different methods: poisoning, falling off cliffs, drowning in lakes. But those felt too slow, too uncertain. Truck-kun was instant and straightforward. Which was why, every year on her birthday, she made her attempt.

  This year's plan was flawless. She'd mapped the route. Studied traffic patterns. Identified the specific intersection where delivery trucks took a sharp turn at exactly 11:47 PM every night. She'd practiced her timing. Not too early: driver might stop, not too late: might miss entirely. The only variable was luck.

  She was walking home from the convenience store, plastic bag with a single-serving cake swinging from her wrist, when she saw two cats on a low wall. One black, one orange. The black one was grooming the orange one's ear. The orange one was purring loud enough to hear from ten meters away.

  She stopped walking and stared. The cats looked happy. They had each other. "Even stray cats have better relationships than me," she said to her cake. "I've been out-romanced by animals with fleas."

  The black cat's head swiveled toward her. Its eyes caught the streetlight—bright green, almost glowing. The orange cat stopped purring and both cats stared at her.

  "Oh no," she whispered.

  The black cat hopped off the wall. The orange cat followed. They started walking toward her.

  "No," she said firmly, taking a step back. "Stay. I don't do well with affection. It makes me uncomfortable."

  The black cat meowed, sounded friendly. Like it wonna say, we just want to say hi.

  Her heart rate spiked, her palms started sweating. She turned and ran. The plastic bag bounced against her leg. Her sneakers slapped against pavement. Behind her, she heard the rapid patter of tiny paws and realized with absolute horror that the cats were chasing her.

  This was ridiculous. She was a medical student. She'd held human organs in her hands during rotations and watched surgeries. She'd been elbow-deep in cadavers during anatomy lab. And here, she was running from two cats who probably just wanted to be petted.

  She rounded the corner, nearly slipping on a patch of something wet, and suddenly she heard a horn. She turned her head mid-run and saw the delivery truck from her research, the one that took this corner at exactly 11:47 PM, now bearing down on her at full speed.

  The driver's face was visible through the windshield: eyes wide, mouth open, hands yanking the wheel.

  Too late. Her brain didn't think oh no or I'm going to die or this was a mistake. She thought: Finally.

  Her body flew. The world spun, the two cats watching from the sidewalk like well, we didn't expect that, and then she was on the ground, staring up at the night sky. So many stars. When had she last looked at stars? Seoul's light pollution usually hid them. But tonight, in this moment, with her vision starting to dim at the edges, she could see them clearly. They were beautiful.

  Running footsteps. Someone shouting. The truck driver, maybe, his voice high and panicked: "—didn't see her—the cats—she just—someone call—"

  Someone knelt beside her. Pressed something against her head. "Stay with me," the person said. Young male voice. "Ambulance is coming. Stay awake. Can you hear me?"

  She tried to answer but couldn't. The man's face appeared above her, blocking the stars. He looked handsomely terrified.

  She wanted to tell him it was okay. That she'd been trying to do this for seventeen years and finally, finally succeeded. But she couldn't speak. So she smiled instead.

  The last thing she heard was the distant wail of sirens, growing louder.

  The last thing she felt was relief. And then nothing but darkness.

  And somewhere very far away, in a space between spaces, a truck with a consciousness muttered, "Oh, hell no. Not again."

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